


These Are a Few of Their Favourite Things

by Travellingthestars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Travellingthestars/pseuds/Travellingthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string- These are a few of their favourite things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raindrops on Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my giddy God, I don't really know what I'm doing. The boys popped up in my head, shoved this in my face, and wouldn't let me give up on it, so... Any form back of feedback is much appreciated. This is entirely unbeta-d, so if you could give me a nudge over any idiocies I may have made that'd be fab. I have no ownership or power over these beautiful guys, all credit for the characters goes to Moffat, Gatiss and Sir ACD, whom I'm certain would detest everything I've forced these men to do.

John woke to rain, a splitting headache and a cold bed. He immediately wished he hadn’t, and rolled over with every intention of going back to sleep. He stretched out, sprawling across the bed, onto Sherlock’s side, and then opened his eyes when his hand encountered something which was decidedly not-bed, not-Sherlock, and was instead very something-which-should-not-be-in-our-bed-what-the-hell-is-it-Sherlock?!

His fingertips were barely brushing over the long, dark stem of a rose. The leaves were deep olive green, curling around the stem, and the thorns had been removed leaving wine red oval shaped marks. The petals were a pale, soft, pastel yellow, barely open.

He shifted to sit up, looking around the room. A thermal flask of tea sat on the bedside table, steam rising from the small hole in the lid and winding up towards the ceiling. He smiled gratefully, sipped it, and hummed in pleasure as the hot liquid slipped smoothly down his throat and warmed him.

He looked back to the flower, picked it up to inhale the sweet smell, before chuckling to himself. “What are you, John, a hopeless schoolgirl?” He shook his head, despairing at his own sentimentality, and then noticed a small lemon yellow envelope still resting on the sheets, beside where the rose has been. He lifted it, looked it over, and smiled again. His name was written in Sherlock’s ornate script in black ink on the front.

He turned it over, lifted the flap, pulled out a white card and opened it- entirely too pleased with the turn of events the morning had taken.

_John._

_Yellow flowers, particularly roses, used to symbolise joy and friendship. Supposedly they indicate a platonic relationship, but when given in a romantic context show that the giver cares about the receiver. They’re also a promise of a new beginning- when better to turn over a new leaf than today?_

_Thorn less roses also indicate love at first sight..._

_I thought today you might appreciate the sentiment._

_Also, they’re so bloody cheerful, it almost made me smile. Hearing you say my name in your sleep finished the job._

_Happy Birthday, my love. I hope we’ll spend many more together. There’s toast, more tea, and painkillers in the kitchen. Also a significant lack of body parts and chemicals, I hope you’ll notice. Never let it be said that I don’t make an effort for you._

_... I love you, John._

_Sherlock. X_

_PS- Please don’t check the red container in the fridge. Go on in ignorant bliss of its contents._

John beamed, clambered out of bed, rose clutched in one hand and the envelope in the other. “Sherlock? This was really sweet, thank you so much...” He trailed off as he walked into the lounge, saw the flat was empty. “Sherlock?” He frowned, headed into the kitchen, put the rose and note down and swallowed the painkillers- which were indeed sat on the (clean) kitchen table- dry, and then picked up a slice of toast and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he eyed the pale pink envelope which leant against his favourite mug, along with a pastel pink copy of the flower he’d found on Sherlock’s pillow.

He picked up the envelope, slid his thumb under the flap, lifted out the plain white card.

_No, I’m not in the flat. But I’m waiting for you, John. Just like always._

_Pink roses symbolise happiness, pride and admiration._

_I am happier with you than I have ever been, and happy in the knowledge that you will be here tomorrow, and the next day, and that I will be happier with you tomorrow than I am today, and happier the next day, because we seem to just keep getting better. We are our own catalyst in this ‘experiment’ it seems._

_And know that I admire you. I admire the determination you have, your strength. I admire the soldier, the saviour, the doctor. I admire the hero in you, John, because you taught me that they do exist. I admire my lover. My friend. My partner._

_You are a great man, John._

_And better? You’re a good one._

_I couldn’t be prouder._

_Don’t try to tell me otherwise, John. I’m a genius, and I- as you very well know- am always right._

_PS- Finish your toast, drink your tea. You’ll need the energy. Then go get dressed._

John chuckled and sat down, deciding that he’d play Sherlock’s game. His words had almost brought tears to John’s eyes. Sherlock wasn’t much of a lyricist usually; John wasn’t used to such levels of sentimentality.

He sipped the tea thoughtfully, humming to himself. Yes, he’d play Sherlock’s game, though he’d do it in his own time. He hadn’t realised how long he’d sat there, until he tipped back the cup and no more tea flowed into his mouth. He chuckled, shook his head at his own silliness and got to his feet- leaving the pair of roses and notes on the table, before showering quickly, and then strolling through to pull on clothes.

He opened the wardrobe, and was faced with another note pinned to his favourite jumper, along with a white rose. He grinned, hurriedly tore open the envelope and began to read, stood in his boxers, water still dripping down his chest.

 

_John._

_White roses are supposed to symbolise innocence and purity._

_Innocent and pure are two things you emphatically_ are not.

_...But I really couldn’t leave out the white, they’re my favourites aesthetically._

_So._

_I love your face when you moan my name- or when I moan yours. I love the way you stare at my arse when I bend over at crime scenes, (Yes, I noticed, I’m not usually half so clumsy-I’m doing it on purpose, you dolt!) I love the arch of your back when you come, I love when you kiss me hard enough to leave bruises, and I love you inside me. I love when you fuck me, hard, and when you make love to me. And I love when I’m inside you, and I can feel your heartbeat over every inch of my skin._

_I love loving you, John._

_Your keys are in your coat pocket. There’s a taxi waiting. (You don’t need your gun, I’m certain this cabbie isn’t a psychopath. Mycroft checked.)_

John glanced out the window and sure enough, a taxi sat on the curb, waiting to pick him up. He steadfastly ignored the fact that he’d gotten half-hard reading Sherlock’s latest note, and got dressed, pulling on the jumper the card and rose had been pinned to. He dashed back into the kitchen, snipped the ends off the three roses he’d already received, and stuffed them into a pint glass full of water. The cards he tucked into his jeans pocket. Still grinning, he strolled back into the lounge, grabbed his coat and pulled it on, checking his pocket for his keys. He found not only his keys, but a small orange envelope, and a rose the colour of a sunset.

He added the rose to the pint glass, and hurried down the stairs, getting into the cab and waiting for it to pull away before he opened the note from his pocket.

 

_John._

_I got a little carried away in the florists, but I’m not sorry._

_Orange roses are generally associated with fascination. One website I used for research insisted, “When you are totally besotted and completely bewitched by somebody, send them an orange rose.”_

_Well it seemed apt, as I couldn’t be more addicted to you if I tried._

_They’re also symbolic of enthusiasm. The florist would agree with me on this one- you cannot fault my enthusiasm. (I broke a vase. She wasn’t pleased. She’s gotten over it now- I sent Mrs Hudson round with some tea.)_

_The Victorians used orange to denote desire. Red was considered garish and brash, and so they had a preference for orange._

_I certainly desire you, John. In all ways. I desire your heart, and your mind, and your body- you are entirely too desirable and you should certainly consider doing something about that because I simply cannot contain myself. (No, the jumpers are unsuccessful at hiding that brilliant body, particularly now I have memorised every inch of skin beneath them.)_

_I’ll see you soon, John._

_Sherlock. X_

_PS-Please don’t wank in the taxi, I’ll get charged extra._

John chuckled, tucked the card in his pocket, and spent the journey gazing out the window, trying to figure out where they were headed. The taxi appeared to be circling, taking winding backstreets, and it didn’t take long for John to realise that Sherlock was buying himself time. Eventually things became more linear, and the car pulled up outside The Regent’s Park. The cabbie turned round, held out a small blue envelope, and then a rose with shockingly blue petals. “Mr Holmes left these for you, Mr Watson.” John took them, opened the envelope, pulled out the card.

 

_John._

_I’m afraid I got some blue dye on my shirt. Mrs Hudson has assured me that it will wash out- she suggests soaking it in milk first._

_Blue roses denote the unattainable, the impossible._

_Everything I thought you were. I was wrong on one count, and right on the other._

_I’m lucky enough to have you- for this I was glad to be at fault in my deductions. But you, John Hamish Watson, are entirely impossible. You are everything I thought people couldn’t be. You defy reason and logic; you are the epitome of infuriating... Thank you, for that, John. For showing me how people can be at their best. Because you are, John. The very best._

_Queen Mary’s Garden, John. I’m waiting._

John shook his head in amazement, thanked the cabbie, and climbed out, watched the car drive away, before heading into the park, twirling the rose between his fingers. He followed the familiar paths, until he came to the entrance of the rose garden. Laid on the path, was a pair of roses, red and white, stems twined around each other. An envelope lay beneath them, red this time, still dry, though the roses were coated in shining raindrops, as was the floor. He bent to pick up the flowers and the envelope, and then stopped on a nearby bench to open it.

 

_“Queen Mary’s Garden is a world famous garden named after the wife of King George V. In 1932 when Queen Mary’s Gardens opened to the general public, the first superintendent planted a rose garden which was completed in 1934. The rose garden is London’s largest collection of roses with approximately 12,000 roses planted within the gardens.” –The Royal Parks._

_John._

_The florist was rather sceptical when I suggested a bouquet to match Queen Mary’s Garden- so I’m sure you’ll understand why I haven’t bought you 12,000 roses._

_The two you’re holding now symbolise a great deal._

_Traditionally, red and white roses together indicated blood and bandages. I don’t wish to upset you, love, but you’ve spent much time on the battlefield- and I don’t mean the streets of London. There are some you’ve lost- and those brave soldiers shouldn’t be forgotten. Nor should the ones you saved- I rang around your army mates (With Mycroft’s help); they’ll be in the area next week._

_Red and white roses when given together also indicate unity. Red roses alone symbolise love, beauty, courage and respect. They’re used to say ‘I love you’, all over the world._

_Another meaning for white roses- one I didn’t divulge earlier- is silence. Keep your lips sealed, John, for now, because there’s something I need to say..._

“I prefer to text.” Sherlock stepped out from his hiding place, stood in front of John, and smiled. “Though I felt, perhaps, the letters were rather more romantic...” His lips quirked again, and he nodded at the pair of roses John held, wound together. “I hope you like them, John... I’ve learnt an awful lot of things, arranging this for you, you know. All sorts of things about roses. If you count the two you’re holding now as one- since they’re a pair, two halves of a whole- then I’ve given you six roses. Six roses signify a need to be loved or cherished.  A single rose, apparently, shows utmost devotion to the receiver...” He trailed off, glanced around. “I’m afraid I don’t know the symbolism of twelve thousand roses, John, but I know I’d give you every one of them if I could.” He paused again, swiped his tongue over his lower lip, and then shifted to sit on the damp bench beside John.

“I’ve never been particularly superstitious. It lacks logic, and terms like ‘luck’ and ‘fate’ make me want to hit something... But I’ve found there are certain things that bring me comfort.” He smiled slightly. “Woollen jumpers. Roses. And the number two. Many people choose that, as their lucky number, you know. Two. I’m not sure why, though there is an appeal. The appeal to me, in this case, is the final meaning of those two roses that you’re holding, John. There’s a meaning associated with two roses.” He hesitated, cocked his head to one side as he looked John over, assessing. “Two roses, twined together... Like the ones that you’re holding... They mean ‘Marry me.’”

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out another rose, this one a peachy colour, and a final envelope. John took the envelope, still silent, opened it, pulled out the card inside, and began to read. 

 

_John._

_You haven't run away screaming, so I can only hope that the answer to the statement I just made is positive. If so, a rose of this colour says 'Let's get together' and symbolises closing a deal._

_I love you, John, always and forever._

_I vow to love you and care for you as long as we both shall live. I take you with all your faults and your strengths as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths. I will help you when you need help, and I will turn to you when I need help. I choose you as the person with whom I will spend my life._

_Take the rose, John. Close the deal. Marry me._

_  
_He took the rose, and sealed the deal in his own way- with a kiss.


	2. Whiskers on Kittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again un-beta'd, please let me know of any stupidity. Thank you so much for the support so far! I have no ownership or power over these beautiful guys, all credit for the characters goes to Moffat, Gatiss and Sir ACD, whom I'm certain would detest everything I've forced these men to do.

Sherlock strolled into 221B carrying a box. A box emitting strange, squeaking sounds. It was cardboard, with holes punched in the top, loose tape holding the lid down. He headed up the stairs with rather more care than usual; slowly making his way up, pale, long fingered hands holding the squirming box steady, the stairs creaking under his feet. 

When he reached the top, he lowered the box gently to the floor, bracketing it still with his legs whilst he shrugged out of his coat and tucked the scarf into his pocket before hanging his coat up on the hook. He toed off his shoes, laid them neatly beneath his coat, and then padded into the lounge in his socks- mewling box clasped firmly in both hands. "Joh-" 

The blonde was sat with his head buried  in the crossword, pen between his teeth, empty mug of tea beside him, left on the couch- probably John had picked it up intending to get another when an answer for the puzzle had come to the forefront of his mind, and he’d laid the mug down to fill it in, and then promptly forgotten about the tea.

"No." John didn't even look up from his newspaper, the pitiful noises coming from the box having reached his ears before Sherlock could fully articulate his name. "I don't care what's in that box, Sherlock, or why you want it in the flat. Regardless of the answers to those questions, it's not happening. I'm not having you run experiments in the kitchen on something alive." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest- John let him experiment on him all the time and he was definitely alive- but John held up a hand to silence him. "It can't consent, it doesn't count." Aside from the matter of informed consent, John was certainly not all together eager to witness the huge variety of gruesome experiments Sherlock would be sure to concoct.

Sherlock's face fell into a pout. ("I didn't pout, John. I don't pout. It's undignified." A pout spread across those perfect pink bow lips as he spoke- years afterwards.  "Yes you do, and yes you did, and yes you are. You definitely pouted! Now let me get on with telling Greg, okay?") And he mumbled, "It's not for an experiment, John! I found it, is all."

"Well then I'm sure you can un-find it with just as much ease!" As John spoke, Sherlock dropped into a crouch, put the box on the floor and lifted the flaps. John's newspaper was on the floor before Sherlock had blinked, and John was towering over him before another second had passed. "If you open that box, Sherlock Holmes, I will not be held accountable for my actions. So help me, if you have rats in there-" 

"It's not rats, John!" Sherlock reached in and pulled out a small, squirming ball of fur.

"That's a..." John trailed off, anger evaporating as he stretched out his hand to stroke a fluffy cheek. "Well it's not a rat..." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kitten. I don't intend to keep him. I thought Mrs Hudson might like the company?" John chuckled, shook his head. "I think she'd like the company, but I'm not too sure she wants it in the form of a cat..."

"Kitten." Sherlock corrected again. "It won't stay a kitten forever, Sherlock." John reached over, took the wriggling animal and carried it back to the couch, sitting down with it in his lap. "We had a cat for a while, when I was young. He was Harry's really, but she wasn't that interested after the first few weeks. He'd sleep on my bed. Smidge. Not a great name- Harry's choice." He smiled, scratched the cat behind the ears and set it purring. "We'll have to christen you better, won't we?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise. He didn't want to keep the cat. It was just that he'd passed the box on his way home, and he didn't think that even he was heartless enough to leave the poor thing to meet it's end on a cold London street. He'd meant what he'd suggested about giving it to Mrs Hudson- he'd decided that would be the best course of action on the way home and it simply hadn't occurred to him that she mightn't want a kitten. 

John smiled, "Gosh, you're a pretty puss-cat... We'll have to get you to the kitty cat shelter. I hope whoever takes you home gives you a better name than Smidge." The kitten mewled, and started to knead his claws into John's jumper, pulling out loops of wool in the process. John chuckled again, held out his hand, loosely curled into a fist and the kitten stretched to rub his cheek over John's knuckles, nudging at his hand until his fingertips rested in the fur on the top of his head. Sherlock reached out, tentatively mimicked John's loose fist. The cat nuzzled at his hand, then lifted a paw. Sherlock immediately tried to withdraw, instinctively fearing a scratch, but John's gaze met his. "Its fine, 'Lock. He's just saying hello." Sherlock stilled, and the cat patted at his hand, claws retracted.

Sherlock smiled. "I quite like him, John. But I don't want him here all the time." John grinned, part of him very glad that Sherlock had decided he wanted the cat around occasionally- he’d never admit it, but he missed having company when Sherlock was out. "Me either. It's alright, we'll feed him and whatever, and make sure there's always a window or a door open so that he can come and go as he pleases."

It still made Sherlock smile years later, when he emerged from an experiment induced focus, to find John fast asleep, sprawled across the couch with the cat- hastily christened Winston by mutual agreement of the need for a name which came from someone both admirable and 'at least somewhat intelligent'- curled up and purring on his chest. John’s hand curled protectively over the cat’s head; and for his part, the cat seemed utterly content to guard John’s sleeping form until Sherlock moved over, sat on the floor by the couch, and took up his own sentry position, when the cat laid his head down and napped peacefully. Neither man, nor the cat moved, until Mrs Hudson called up the stairs that there was a documentary about Sherlock on television, and did they want coffee. They did, and ended up watching squashed together on the couch with Mrs Hudson, Winston moving from one lap to another as he pleased, as they had done and would continue to do for many evenings to come.


	3. Bright Copper Kettles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and dedicated to nat_scribbles for Valentines Day, because I'm rubbish at presents. I love you. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for the support so far! I have no ownership or power over these beautiful guys, all credit for the characters goes to Moffat, Gatiss and Sir ACD, whom I'm certain would detest everything I've forced these men to do.

It was kind of... Green. Gloopy- slimy, almost. It certainly didn’t look healthy, whatever it was. John eyed it wearily, shifted nervously from foot to foot, wishing that he didn’t have to deal with this before he’d had so much as his morning cuppa.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what this green slimy crap is in this Petri dish on my newly cleaned dining room table; and I don’t fucking want to know what this green slimy crap is in this Petri dish on my newly cleaned dining room table; I just know that I don’t fucking want it to be there!”  He planted his hands flat on the old scarred wood and stared down the stuff in the Petri dish as if it was about to leap out at him. He hoped to God it wasn’t toxic. “Sherlock, if this green slimy crap is toxic you don’t want to fucking know what I’m going to do to you, you little shit!”

John almost hoped it was toxic, just for the satisfaction of being able to toss the disgusting mess away and break Sherlock’s nose as punishment- the genius was being insanely  irritating, of late.

“It’s not toxic!” The genius called from his room. “But don’t touch it! It’s important!” Sherlock emerged, draped in his sheet, manic curls of hair stuck up in all directions. “And don’t touch the kettle either!” He stared at John. “Are you listening, John?”

The blonde, for his part, was staring back, face blank. Eventually, he blinked, came back to himself, and positively roared, “WHAT. THE BLOODY FUCK. HAVE YOU DONE. TO MY GODDAMNED KETTLE?!”  

Sherlock looked somewhat like he’d been hit over the head with a brick. “Well... Well I... There was this... I thought that maybe you wouldn’t... I put blood in it with hydrochloric acid and chloroform, I wanted to- well it doesn’t matter, but I needed to... And it...” John growled, a low rumble in his chest, as his eyes narrowed further.

“I ask, Sherlock, for one goddamn thing! For the things in this kitchen to be clean. You can experiment on the table, keep bloody heads in the fridge, do what you like- But I want fresh tea in a clean cup and food that’s not full of acid and dirt.” He deflated, a little, rubbed his hands over his face. “Is it so much to ask that you put things in clearly labelled Tupperware and leave the appliances alone?” A sigh was heaved, frown lines rubbed away, and then he slowly stepped closer. “I expect a new fucking kettle, Sherlock. I’m going out, and I’m not coming back until you tell me that you’ve bought a replacement kettle.” Punishment enough, perhaps- put the three year old in a shop and leave him to his own devices.

Sherlock wet his lips nervously. “I ought not mention the teapot, then?”

“No, Sherlock. You ought not mention the teapot. Just... Assume that if any foreign substances have entered any of my kitchen appliances, I want them replaced. Understood?”

“... Yes, John. Sorry, John.” The detective blushed, and John scowled and turned away to get ready- without his habitual cuppa. Fifteen minutes later, he was leaving, a grim smile on his face. It was a petty win, really, but oh, it glowed. Sherlock hated shopping, hated shops, and hated the shoppers who frequented them, and it would be hellish for him to tolerate that kind of environment for any length of time. Marvellous.

 

**Male, 28, having gay affair with-; male, 26, frequents online porn sites, has a fetish for-; female, 63, never been married, has two three cats-; male,47, naturally blonde, uses hair dye to cover up the-; female, 19, got that shirt from a charity shop, told her boyfriend it was designer so that he would-** Hell. It was hell. It never, ever stopped, so much noise, all the time, and here, here it was endless. Endless streams of maddening- **Heinz beans, offer, 13p cheaper than usual, John likes beans, John likes beans and sausages and toast for breakfast with his-** Tea. With his tea. To make tea you need hot water- you need a kettle. And John only ever makes cups of tea, with cheap teabags, because it’s a distraction to get up and make tea, means he can have more breaks, stretch his legs, better than a pot, only he’s never had- **Lady Grey, Darjeeling, Raspberry and mint, Chai, Blackcurrant and** \- Jam. He likes jam, too, for breakfast, with his tea, and so Sherlock ought to get some. Some tea. And some jam. And the kettle. Now, probably, if he could only figure out which aisle- **3~confectionary; 14~detergent; 22~coffee and-** Tea. There. Aisle 22. Not far. He could grab the tea, maybe and get out of this infernal- **Supermarket (noun.) A shop selling food and household goods arranged so that you can help yourself and pay for everything at a till by the exit; Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s, Asda, Morrisons, Waitrose, Marks and Spencer’s, Lidl, Aldi, Co-Op-** Perhaps somewhere else would be better. Somewhere less busy. Somewhere a little more- **Quiet, calm, refined, upperclass, posh, prim, Mycroft, Mummy, Father, lonely, John-** Yes. Yes, somewhere special. Somewhere special for John.  

 

By closing hours, John was beginning to regret his outburst. He’d backed himself into a corner, saying that he wouldn’t go home until his things had been replaced. And it was all very well and good to say so, except now he had to follow through on his threat and he found himself in rather a sticky situation. He hadn’t anywhere to stay, particularly. Nowhere he’d be especially welcome, at least. A night on the lilo at Sarah’s, perhaps, only it wasn’t particularly comfortable. Greg’s couch, then? No, it couldn’t compare to his own bed. Maybe it had been something of an overreaction, after all.

His bed, with silky sheets, leant to him after Sherlock destroyed his own worn cotton ones by an ‘accidental’ incident with some mould spores. His bed, with the thick comforter and down pillows, last year’s Christmas present when John had been complaining about how cold his room was in winter. His room, with the new curtains Mrs Hudson had given him after Sherlock had caught that thief a couple of months ago, as a thank you present. And the chest of draws- antique, from the Holmes Estate, which Sherlock had handed over when he realised John was using an old cloth wardrobe and a plastic laundry basket for his clothes.

His room, which housed, in fact, more of Sherlock’s things than it did John’s. Things the detective had bought or leant or given or gifted to John whenever he was in need. Things he had, on occasion, had to break before John was willing to accept the replacement. Things which were never anything other than wonderful, gladly appreciated, and cherished. Things he made use of, and loved, and which made him smile- just having them there.

John rubbed his hands over his face, and began to pull on his coat, readying himself for the journey home.

 

_[18:43 Message Sent: Sherlock Holmes to John Watson]_   
_Replacements made. I’m sorry. Going out, back late. –SH_

 

_[18:45 Message Sent: John Watson to Sherlock Holmes]_   
_Thank you. –JW_

_[18:46 Draft Saved. Message: John Watson to Sherlock Holmes]_   
_I love you. –JW_

_[18:50 Draft Deleted.]_

 

_[18:52 Message Sent: Sherlock Holmes to John Watson]_   
_Any time, John. –SH_

 

The boxes sat on the kitchen table. They had been carefully wrapped with nimble fingers. Ribbon had been cut to precise lengths, and tied in place. The paper was brown, functional, durable; and the ribbon, while fanciful, served to keep the paper in place as he hadn’t bothered with tape. It was a deep aubergine purple, smooth and silky. Each loop of was symmetrical and organised to absolute perfection, and even the boxes themselves had been set out in neat formation, spaced evenly, the edges aligned.  

The ribbon fell aside with a sharp tug, the paper loosening immediately. It crinkled with every brush of tanned fingers, revealing the wicker box beneath, lined with white cotton. The box could be reused, time and again, for other gifts, or for storage of papers or soaps or socks. A thoughtful detail, if unnecessary. It had been filled, loosely packed with fragrant hay, which smelt warm and grassy and sunny.

Atop the hay in the first basket laid boxes. Decorative. Matte black with shiny leafy patterns wound around the corners. They were filled with tea, all sorts of tea, and fresh coffee beans and tiny little bottles of flavourings for the coffee.

The next had cups. Cups and saucers and mugs and dainty little spoons. The china itself wasn’t half so delicate. It wasn’t easily breakable, a pale blue, and serviceable.

The third had matching accessories- a milk jug, a sugar dish, a spoon for the sugar and a little bowl for lemon slices.

The final one had a teapot- big enough for tea for two, little enough to be easily tidied away.

 

John looked around the room, eyebrows drawn together in a frown, and his gaze landed on it. Set atop the stove, a shiny metal kettle, the kind which whistled, of a sort nobody often used anymore. Bright copper which reflected the clean state of the rest of the kitchen. Wonderful and a little tarnished around the bottom, used and mildly battered, and John through and through. A little note was tied to the handle:

_There’s an electrical one in the cupboard, but this one shines as bright as you do. My conductor of light. My friend. My John._   
_-SH_

 

  
  
  
  



End file.
